Years had passed since the war. Hogwarts had been rebuilt, Diagon Alley bustled once more, and most letters that came were bills, work updates, or the occasional invite to a wedding you weren’t sure you’d attend.

But this letter was different.

A tawny owl tapped gently at your window just past sunrise, carrying an envelope with slightly burnt edges—how very him. You blinked, heart lurching as you recognized the handwriting scrawled across the parchment.

To someone I should’ve written to sooner.

Inside, a single sheet, warm with memory:

“Hey you,

I know, it’s been years. I thought about writing so many times but didn’t know what to say that didn’t sound foolish.

And then I realized—I've already missed enough chances.

Would you… like to meet me? Properly. Not just as old classmates or war survivors, but as two people who might’ve had something if the world hadn’t been ending around us.

I’ll be at that little café in Hogsmeade—the one with the treacle tart you like—this Sunday at 3. I’ll be the one trying not to set the menu on fire.

Yours, if you’ll have me, Seamus”

The paper trembled slightly in your hands, your chest tight with all the feelings you thought you’d packed away in a box labeled “then.”

But some things, it turns out, wait patiently. For years, even.

And Sunday was only a few days away